A Decision
by Corelli Sonatas
Summary: Mary realises that she no longer wishes for George to have a nanny. Naturally, Robert is not immediately delighted with the prospect of such change. An emotional ride for Mary, set during Series Four.
1. Ambivalence

Lady Mary Crawley turned at the sound of a knock. "Come in." Her slender fingers danced along the soft fabric of little George's clothing; the baby was not yet asleep, but his eyes drooped as he watched his mama's gentle strokes on his stomach. Soon the visitor revealed her voice:

"It's me, Mary. You seemed under-the-weather last night at dinner, and so I came to see if you felt any better today."

The young woman had turned round in the stool to face Isobel Crawley. The two women smiled warmly at one another. "Please do sit down," acknowledged Mary.

The new grandmother obeyed, her wide grin lighting up the dark nursery. Isobel took her seat on the cushioned wicker chair next to George's crib.

"I am feeling better, thank you," began Mary. She fully disengaged her body from the interior of the child's bed and rested her hands neatly on her lap. "How are you this morning?"

"Oh, quite well. I'd hoped to catch you and George in here; so rare it is to find both mother and child together in a house like this!" Isobel's eyes shone with love. It warmed Mary's heart when she observed that; whereupon she thanked her mother-in-law:

"I cannot hide the truth that I have a wonderful mother-in-law. Matthew left me in good hands."

Isobel blushed, not immediately stung by Mary's bittersweet words. "Indeed, Matthew would not have allowed anything but 'good hands'. It's a curious thing: he always considered the well-beings of those around him, and never did his bright aura sever."

The baby began to gurgle and mumble nonsensical things; Mary looked into the little bed and beamed at her son. "You are right; and nothing can prevent this little one from radiating joy. Look at him..." She brought George out of the crib and sat the child on her lap. He extended his arms out toward his grandmother; Isobel smiled and fought back tears of mourning. _Poor little George,_ thought she; _his birth marked also my dear boy's death._

Mary detected her mother-in-law's sadness. "Here." She handed the baby over to Isobel, who pressed her lips firmly together for the utmost composure. George vibrated his lips, sounding rather like the motor of a small car.

The proud grandmother chuckled. "They're all the same, really; Matthew was this way, too, and he was ever so good at making these sorts of noises!"

Never was it difficult for Mary to hear about her late husband's childhood years. Rather, these recollections were a comfort and a joy to hear; they reminded the young woman of her own childhood, and it never pained her to imagine Matthew as a baby. "I can imagine," replied she.

"How often do you see him?" wondered Isobel out loud. The baby had started fussing, so she sat him on her lap and bounced him up and down.

In response to the last question, Mary's heart pounded in her chest. _How often? Dare I answer?_ "Not as often as I should," confessed she, trying to keep her calm in front of her mother-in-law.

Not only was the subject a soft one due to the baby's lack of parental guidance; it had become quite a conflict in the young mother's mind: should she continue to have a nanny there for George, or should she seize the opportunity to care for her child without such a system? _I am haunted by the truth that my son only has one parent alive. How could I keep him at arm's length, when we breathe in the same house?_

"I'm sorry," came Isobel's response to Mary's confession. "These days, I can see the pressures of the old world colliding with the new: whether or not to have a nanny for the child is a great matter."

"I agree," admitted Mary, "which is why I am at loss. It pains me to have a nanny for him, because before I know it George will be a young adult, and at that point I will have missed his childhood.

"But of course," continued she, "if I were to rebel against the ways of the aristocracy, my task would be no easy one. Usually in this world there are reasons for rules."

"I don't think of it as a rule," declared Isobel, now more hushed than before; the baby had shut his blue eyes closed whilst sitting on his grandmother's lap. Isobel shifted him into a more comfortable position, then continued: "What they did perhaps worked for them, but they knew not the very joy of parents caring for their children first-hand!"

"My worry is that I am not ready to be - well, a mother! I have no wholesome experience," Mary decided. She looked into the eyes of Matthew's mother and thought, _She should be revered a true hero, having __reared her child on her own._ _What am I thinking: that I can become as wonderful a mother as she?_

"Neither does any new mother have any experience at the moment of their first child's birth," reminded Isobel in a gentle voice. The woman's ageing hands worked gracefully to stroke the baby's head, on which there had grown - during the past six months - a full set of brown hair. "We are all learning creatures, Mary. There is nothing wrong with that; and please don't think I will not help you! Grandmothers are, precisely, for guiding their children and nurturing their grandchildren. After all, it literally is my profession."

She referred to the occupation of hospital nurse; and that had always comforted Mary, because she knew that - were anyone's health ever to falter - her mother-in-law would be able to assist with the situation. "I am grateful for that, Isobel, truly. It boggles my mind, that I could ever become what my mother and so many others never were: they were not really our mothers until we reached young adulthood, when the nanny had left the house."

"It is a very simple thing to want to care for one's own child. It is another thing to do what society tells us not to do, and to feel confident about it." Isobel smiled sadly at the child in her arms. "Let's not worry little George about it, and talk sometime soon at Crawley House. I think he would prefer that; his eyes keep faintly opening and closing."

Mary marvelled at her son. _The last thing I want for him is to hear his mother's quarrels with life,_ she decided. "Of course we must talk soon," responded she, "else I will fall to the ground without your comforting presence." She smiled at Isobel, who handed the baby back to its mother.

The two women got up from their seats; Isobel reached to touch her daughter-in law's cheek. "That is because Matthew swelled with love and comfort, and we couldn't help but steal from his rich supply." Mary only nodded, attempting to conceal the broken heart within. _Think of the baby, think of Isobel,_ she repeated inside her head. _And then you must remember Matthew - through these people, through your memories - because Matthew still lives through them...and always will._

In minutes, Isobel Crawley had kissed her grandson on the forehead and had bid Mary a pleasant morning; afterward she had exited the room - leaving it much happier than it had been, prior to her arrival.


	2. Animosity

Two extremely painful days transpired for Mary Crawley, both of which had consisted of deep feelings toward raising George on her own. It had occurred to the young mother and widow that she could not see her future resulting in the same dull pattern as had her mother's, and the Dowager Countess's, and just about every mother of the aristocracy. _How did they endure it, _wondered Mary several times, _leaving their darling children to the care of others? How could they have borne it?_

What the woman forgot to recognise was the fact that those generations of mothers had known no different, and that life had carried on as was custom for their lot. It had never been frowned upon, nor had it ever really brought about conflict between family members; the children simply had a nanny for their childhood years, and that was all there was to it.

And so, two days ensuing Isobel Crawley's visit to the nursery, Mary decided that she would take advantage of the evening. The Earl of Grantham had proposed the idea of dinner, to which he invited Violet and Isobel. Cora had consented to the idea, and so all lay in place for Mary's plan to publicly discuss her dilemma.

Twenty minutes had passed since the dressing gong had rung; Anna was already inside Lady Mary's bedroom, finishing her duties with the care and special touch for which she was known. "Thank you, Anna. I think I will go to the nursery now, to give the baby my love before dinner."

"Very well, milady," responded Anna happily. _So nice to hear that her ladyship is showing interest in her son._ And despite how harsh the thought sounded to the lady's maid after she had mused it, it was true: Lady Mary had been hit extraordinarily hard following the late Mr. Crawley's death. _I am glad she has warmed up to the reality of having a son,_ concluded Anna. "Will that be all, then?"

"Yes; thank you." Mary ran her fingers through portions of her hair before rising from the vanity seat. "I'll be ringing a little later than usual tonight, so I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Anna assured her. "Have a lovely time." Mary grinned, nodded to her good friend, and departed for the nursery.

When Mary arrived, the children's nanny was cradling George, who had apparently been crying. The baby's eyes were puffy and red, side-effects from intense bawling. "Shhh," Nanny calmed him, reapplying the blanket that had almost dared to fall completely off the child. "It's perfectly all right, little darling."

The nanny did not acknowledge Mary's presence, even though the young mother had fully entered the room. Finally Nanny looked up. "Milady, what a surprise! What can I do for you?"

"If you don't mind, I'd like to say good-night to George," declared Mary gently. The last thing she desired to do was to disrespect this woman who undoubtedly looked after her son - even if Mary wished such would come to an end. Nanny replied, "Of course!" and handed the boy over to his mother.

George's dilated pupils examined Mary carefully, making certain that she was a familiar presence. When at last it seemed he had recognised his mother's touch, the baby relaxed and snuggled against Mary's chest. The young woman smiled. "Was he about to be put to bed?" asked she.

Nanny replied in the affirmative. "Miss Sybbie has fallen asleep already, milady - look! - but I don't know how, since Master George's vocals have been at it!" The servant chuckled, but Mary took the comment to be slightly offensive and biased. She did not instigate conflict, however; and, in minutes, the woman returned George to his nanny and left for the drawing-room.

...

"Hello, Granny," Edith greeted the Dowager Countess, who, to her disappointment, appeared disheveled from the car ride. Violet's granddaughter helped her through the entryway and into the drawing-room.

"I hate to look ill," the Dowager confessed, coughing so as to revive her dry throat. "Edith, keep a distance from me; I do not wish to spread this disease."

Her grandmother's exaggeration made it painful not to laugh, but the middle Crawley daughter - being a respectful and considerate young woman - concealed the emotion. "Come, Granny, everyone's eager to see you."

Sure enough, such was the case: Isobel Crawley, who had arrived at Downton moments prior, strode across the room to greet Violet. "Good evening! So very nice to see you; it's been a while, hasn't it?"

The contrast between Isobel's jolly countenance and Violet's disconcerted one amused Robert and Cora, who were nearby. The Earl and Countess joined the two older women, whilst Mary and Tom conversed at the opposite corner of the room.

"You're going to admit it to him tonight?" Tom was asking, blown away by the topic to which Mary had introduced him. "I'm sorry, but I don't think it will go over very well."

"I am afraid of that," admitted Mary seriously, folding her hands together behind her. "But I must tell him, and in what better company than the entire family?"

"Yes, but I can still imagine Robert's reaction to the whole thing. He'll say it isn't sensical, then Mrs. Crawley will join in to defend you, then I will -"

"You will?"

"Of course. I agree with you." Tom revealed a little smile, lighting up Mary's worried face. "It's just that I can't afford to deprive Sybil of a nanny, because she needs a motherly figure, and Nanny _is_ exactly that." He looked down at the floor when a momentary silence came upon their conversation.

"But you do think I have reason in my idea?" questioned Mary, hoping that she had not heard wrong: that Tom Branson - her trustworthy, loyal brother-in-law - had agreed with her.

"Yes. Little George should have the chance to live alongside his mother, because his mother is still alive...and that is priceless. My only worry is that the subject will not get off to a good start if you bring it up now. Wait until after dinner, when we can all take to the library and discuss it."

"I honour your opinion, Tom, but I'm afraid I can't wait. Something tells me to -"

Carson the butler entered the room with the announcement that dinner was served. Mary put a loving hand on Branson's shoulder, and he let her proceed first to the dining room.

...

This was how the family dinner had begun:

_"The days have gone by so quickly, haven't they?"_

_"Indeed..."_

_"It is hard to imagine that the war ended four years ago. Four years! How did that happen?"_

_"And think of the transformation this country's endured."_

_"Sometimes I get so involved in the new ways that the old ones sound strange."_

_"It is rather funny how it all works. I caught myself asking one day what we did without the telephone!"_

_"Goodness, how did we survive in those days?"_

Such was the talk of the first chapter of the Crawley family's evening repast. The second, however, had not been a pleasant event.

It had commenced with the Earl of Grantham's observation: "Mama, you look unwell. Has the food upset you?"

Violet coughed rather than responded to her son's question; Edith took the initiative to explain her grandmother's state of weakness. "Granny's not been well since she arrived, Papa. We think it's only a result of the changing weather."

"Oh, how I hate when winter changes into spring," explained the Dowager Countess in a hoarse voice. She cleared her throat and continued, "All the new life sprouting, and that sudden heat from the sun! After all, since I was young I have had a fair number of allergies."

"It's probably that, then," determined Tom. And everyone settled for that reasonable explanation.

Following a few minutes of fragmented topics, Mary resolved that she would finally speak. "Something has, for days now, been troubling me; it involves my son."

Robert swallowed his wine abruptly upon the mention of a sensitive member of their family - the son of _his_ deceased, dear son-in-law. He urged her, "And what might that be?"

Mary, being seated at the head of the table, turned to find Isobel on her left. The older woman smiled softly. "I have wondered whether George should not have a nanny after all."

"What?" Cora blurted, though her tone of voice had been but a whisper. Edith looked at her older sister in awe; what sort of alteration was Mary about to put her family through _now?_ Forgetting all empathy for her sister, Edith thought selfishly, _She's caused enough drama and heartbreak since Matthew died. Now she wants to stir the emotions within us yet _again?

Alfred and Carson continued to serve the main and side dishes. The room's jolt in social atmosphere had surprised them, naturally, but they continued as they always had. A chill ran down Carson's spine as he brought the main dish up to Robert, whose quickening breath and infuriation the butler detected.

Mary had expected a hushed dining room after her confession, and so she went on casually with her point. "I suppose this paradoxical notion startles you all, that I - a mother in this position - should suggest a desire to raise my son."

"It is startling, Mary," Robert admitted furiously, "and extremely foolish! My darling, why do you think mothers of the aristocracy hire nannies for their children?"

"Obviously to make it easier for the mothers," replied his eldest daughter, frowning out of fear for her father's elevated temper. Robert only grew worse in that respect.

"Not only that; nannies are properly trained to look after children. How do you think you would manage, should you have the opportunity to raise George?"

Isobel opened her mouth to speak on her daughter-in-law's behalf, but closed it immediately when Robert cocked his head in her direction. "And I don't want you to say, Isobel, that you would help Mary if she did this, because -"

"Robert, please," Cora chastised him, "you are not making this easy for any of us!"

"Mary, but what is your reasoning behind this?" the Dowager Countess wondered. Mary's heart skipped a beat upon knowing that now she faced _two_ people who were caught in the old world: that world of which they had all spoken earlier.

"Granny, I do not criticise those who have had nannies in the past."

"Oh, good," Violet murmured.

"My concern is of George; his father is dead, and right now...so is his mother! I only lay my eyes upon him three times every day: once in the morning, when I see him outside with Sybbie and Nanny; once after luncheon, when he joins us in the drawing-room; and once before dinner - if I am lucky!"

Robert sighed loudly. "Mary, you're being too dramatic about this. I'm sure it will all subside in time, but this is unfair to burden everyone with -"

"Burden?" repeated the woman, chuckling as she had uttered it. "You tell me that I am burdening my _family?_ When has been called a crime to express myself unto my _family?"_

"All right, this not good," Tom whispered to Isobel, who sat on the edge of her chair next to the young man. Isobel nodded quickly and prepared to speak...until Robert came retorting back to his daughter.

"Why are you questioning me? A nanny is good for any young and inexperienced mother, especially for one of your circumstances."

"My _circumstances?_ That is precisely why my child should _not_ have a nanny! Papa, Mama, don't you understand how cruel this is, to Matthew and to George?"

The Dowager Countess was feeling ill. "Oh dear," she uttered. "Might this end in peace, Robert?"

Mary continued, tears stinging her dry eyes. "My son hardly knows me, and yet I go on with my life every day, as if he were nothing but a pet!"

"You wouldn't _dare_ -"

"You might as well understand how I feel about this!"

"Enough! Please!" Cora interjected. Carson stopped mid-stride, and Alfred put the pitcher of wine down on the table. The dining room bathed in hostile silence for moments, and finally Robert's body rose from its chair. Tom tried to make eye contact with his father-in-law, but the Earl of Grantham had other plans in mind. Whilst he stood like a king above his people, Robert announced,

"As long as this conversation persists to pollute the dinner table, I shall be elsewhere. It is a disgrace and a dishonour, and I have been embarrassed and hurt by it." He managed one last gaze in Mary's direction - which was met only by the wilted countenance of a distraught and speechless young woman - and swiftly exited the dining room. All were astonished at Robert's unorthodox action, as it was completely inappropriate for the head of the house to leave the table mid-meal.

The Countess of Grantham knew too well that she would have to go after her husband. "Please excuse me," she declared, pushing her seat out to slip away from the scene of silence. Carson nodded to her ladyship as she went.

Isobel looked scarred, and the Dowager Countess noticed it. "Now, my dear," she addressed the other woman, "you must forgive my son. He can be awfully irrational when he gets upset."

Mary smirked, though her face did not feel like forming into anything similar to a smile. "He was more than upset, Granny."

"Well, I should be going, before this illness grows worse. Carson?"

The butler straightened his body and responded, "Milady?"

"Have the chauffeur ready for me; I am too weary to continue this meal."

Carson appeared rather disappointed by the depreciating number of people at the table. He nodded to the Dowager, whereupon she secured her left hand onto her cane and got up from the chair. Alfred gladly pulled out the chair and Tom honourably rose from the table. "Thank you," acknowledged Violet. "Mary, please tell your father that I have gone home."

"I'll do it," volunteered Edith quickly, turning to her older sister with a sad smile. _Thank you, Edith,_ seemed to be Mary's nonverbal response. If there was one thing positive about the entire situation, it was the fact that Edith, Isobel, and Tom seemed to be on Mary's side. _No, _she corrected, _they _are _on my side; no doubt._

And somehow, despite the raucous evening and failure of an announcement, the widowed woman had confidence still that she would - at some point, in some way - knock the sense into her father about the whole matter.


	3. Approval

The abbey was awfully quiet that night, and Edith hated it. Perhaps Carson had told the servants not to bother the Earl and Countess of Grantham; for there had been a tense scene at dinner, and "the last thing we would want," the butler would declare on various occasions, "is to create unwanted stress when plenty already exists."

Reluctant though she was to confront her parents at this time, Edith continued past several vacant rooms until she came across theirs. _Mama will let me in_, she thought optimistically. "Mama," she called at the door, tapping on the door with the bone of her hand. "It's Edith."

There was a pause, but soon Cora's wan face appeared before her. "Is something wrong, my darling?"

"No, but Granny left early; she wasn't feeling well." Edith noticed her father's figure in the room, and wondered, "Would it be terribly wrong if I come in?"

"Certainly not!" exclaimed Cora with a tired smile, gently pulling the door to let Edith inside. The Countess of Grantham had evidently not called for O'Brien, because her hair was messily undone and her nightgown improperly attired.

Robert drew near his daughter and kissed her forehead unemotionally. "I am sorry about dinner, my darling girl. Mary needs to be careful about proposing such unorthodoxies."

"That is where I disagree with you, Robert," Cora began. "If you listened to Mary's reasons for her proposal, you would have found the sense in it."

"Sense? My darlings, our ancestors have held to the highest standards our ways of living. No one looks upon our people with disgust, but rather respect and admiration."

Cora shook her head. "That isn't true. You and I know better than anyone how revolting 'our people' are to certain groups. Remember Tom?"

Robert huffed at this. "Clearly you have no idea what a disaster Mary wishes to happen. What skill does she possess that will benefit her as a full-time mother to her child? After Matthew's death, I would presume her capabilities much more fragile -"

"What does Matthew's death have to do with this, other than the fact that she should - all the more - take care of her son?" Cora questioned, on the verge of absolute anger. She detested that her husband was so sceptical about Mary's abilities. "Do you think every new mother has what it takes from the beginning?"

Edith was uncomfortable. Robert fumed and Cora reddened in the face: the whole thing was a raw argument. She announced tentatively, "Papa, I think I will go to bed... Is that all right, Mama?"

Cora paused her intense eye contact with Robert and turned to her daughter. "Fine, Edith. Good night."

The Earl held his index finger up to grab his daughter's attention. "If you see Mary, tell her I expect to see her at breakfast in the morning, so that we can discuss this pressing matter."

"No, Robert -" started his wife.

"You heard me, my daughter. Good night."

Edith so much as turned her body to exit the room when she yelped. It was Mary, glaring past Edith and Cora, fixed upon the one male in the room. "We don't have to wait that long, Papa," reasoned Mary coolly. "The matter is, as you mentioned, such a pressing topic of importance."

Nothing upset Cora more at that moment than to watch her husband and daughter staring with such animosity at one another. "Robert! Mary! This is uncalled for, and I suggest you both get to bed before I invite the servants to this embarrassing scene!"

"I only want what is best for George, Papa," explained Mary, now choosing a softer, sincerer tone of voice. Her father did not submit to her words, however, and selected the unmade bedcovers in which to reward himself. "This is silly," muttered he. "My daughter thinks it evil that I have employed a nanny to look after her son. Well," he announced, glancing at Cora and Edith (but not at the other), "I am finished talking about it." He lay down on the comforting surface of his bed and hid his entire body within its blankets.

...

For two days the Earl of Grantham and Tom Branson had been summoned to the fields of Downton. Discussions had concerned farmers' plans of action and fiscal problems resulting in the unproductive nature of the estate's land. Mary, although a rightful owner of Downton - due to Matthew's letter handing off the responsibility to her - found herself uninvited to the ordeal. Or, at least, her _father_ had not bothered to invite her. But the woman resolved to keep quiet and accepting of the matter, wishing for this brief intermission to become useful when at last it ended, after which Mary could bring her own question to the table once again.

"To the table" it was not offered, but instead, Mary waited for one calm spring afternoon, on which she had the knowledge of her little George being out and about on Downton's property with Sybil and Nanny. The Earl, coincidentally, had chosen to take a walk as well.

She found her papa standing still and facing the north, where rolling hills posed perfectly underneath the afternoon sun. Casually she approached him. "I thought we wouldn't see a pleasant spring this year, but I stand corrected."

Her father's head had almost surrendered to averting its position toward the familiar voice; but it remained a slave to the breathtaking landscape before it. "Have you come to challenge me further?" asked Robert, with no particular colour to his question. Mary drew closer to her father and touched his shoulder. "No," she admitted.

He turned to face his daughter, utterly surprised by her softness. "Why have you decided to act as if nothing has happened between us? Do you hope that it will change my mind? Because I tell you it won't."

Studying his countenance, Mary discovered that it displayed far more anguish than she would have imagined. "Has something troubled you, Papa? You don't look as if you're enjoying this beauty before us." She paused momentarily to saturate herself in the tranquility of the fields, gleaming from the sun's radiating light. It poisoned her to find that - when she looked back upon her father's face - he was weeping.

"I cannot see beauty when I look out there," confessed he, wiping the wetness from below his eyes. "My life has become a blind man's walk: I don't know what I am doing, trusting that what I decisions I do make to be the right choices." He blinked to clear his vision, and - upon observing the sympathy within his dear daughter's features - Robert embraced her.

Mary's first impulse was to fidget when her father took her in his arms like this; for such was a curious act, considering that which had transpired between them nights previous. Nevertheless she held onto him, this gesture being his form of apology for their heated argument. The Earl of Grantham sighed. "You don't know what it means to me, that you wait here for an old man to release his burdensome thoughts... I am grateful."

She lifted her head from his shoulder and gazed at him for several moments. "You know I love you, Papa. There isn't a moment when I want to be against you or your wishes..."

Disengaging the two of them from their embrace, Robert asked, "So you've decided not to...?" The other shook her head immediately, admitting,

"I have not given up on that; no, I shall not give up. In time I hope that you will agree with me, but my determination lies elsewhere: now I must prove to you that I can care for my son."

"And what exactly do you plan to do, to prove that to me?" Robert wondered. He pondered the possibilities for a while; then it hit him. "You don't mean -"

"That Nanny will have herself a day off? Indeed."

"But what about Sybbie? You're not going to look after the _two_ children?"

"I am," Mary replied simply. She honestly did not understand what this big job entailed, but her primary task was to convince her father that she was confident and willing. _Papa has always had a soft spot for servants who are eager and over-achieving. I have no doubt that system applies to me right now._ "Tom has consented; all I must do is ask for your permission to dismiss Nanny for a day."

How bewildered and - well, stuck in a _trance_ - the Earl of Grantham appeared! "I will have to think about it," he replied, barely above the volume of a whisper. Mary would not accept his intent to procrastinate. "Why can't you make the decision now?" inquired she, pressingly.

Still Robert could not believe his ears. _This daughter of mine first proposes such a ridiculous idea, and now she plans to inject a sample of it into my house?_ "Very well, I shall inform you when we return from this walk. I am going."

Mary had smartly chosen not to speak anything of their previous conversation whilst they ambled down the dirt path leading to the abbey. Soon, from the corner of her eye, she could see two little prams being pushed by Nanny and her assistant. Mary saw it a fitting time to call her father to attention. "There are Sybbie and George, Papa."

As a proud grandfather must, Robert halted in his steps to admire the sight. When the nanny and assistant turned left, he and Mary could make out two little heads. "Darling children," he sighed. "Were Sybil and Matthew alive, it should be..." He halted in his speech and cocked his head toward Mary. "You've tricked me," he realised. "This was all part of your plan, was it not?"

The widowed young woman chuckled. "You know me too well."

When at last his grandchildren had disappeared from view, Robert looked again at Mary and gave in: "All right. You may tell Nanny that tomorrow shall be her day off."

Mary closed her eyes for a moment and smiled. "Thank you, Papa." She would not embrace him, however, because her father's words were merely the confirmation to allow her but one day to care entirely for George. It did not permit her to become her son's full-time mother, nor did it mean that Robert would get on board with the whole thing.

But the woman smiled and thought to herself, _If small steps must be taken, let them be._


	4. Action

Her day's work began at six in the morning, when Sybbie's whining and George's fussing caught the attention of Robert. "Your children are calling for you," he announced proudly at her door.

"Coming," Mary replied wearily, though she immediately picked up the pace when her father's chuckle met her ears. _He still believes me incompetent,_ thought she. In a matter of seconds, Mary grabbed her nightgown, slipped on some footwear, exited her room, and hurried down the hallway toward _her_ children.

An energetic, vocal niece welcomed her once she entered the nursery. "Hello, Sybbie. Shhh, let's ring for your breakfast. George, Mummy's here; it's all right, shhh, darling." Sybbie had temporarily surrendered to silence, so Mary tended to her son. "It's all right," she assured him, lifting the baby from the crib and resting his head against her chest.

George persisted with his protestation, for he was quite ready to eat. The widowed mother could tell this, and she silently wished for time to reverse so that she could breast-feed George once more. _After all, they didn't let me feed him very much after the first two weeks,_ she mused.

When at last George and Sybbie were calmer and preoccupied with the little toys sitting in their cribs, Mary rang for...well, she retracted her hand, recalling aloud, "Usually the Nanny brings their breakfasts to them." And then it occurred to her: she was Nanny for the day, and so she must traverse the downstairs level of the abbey to grab the children's food. _Wonderful,_ thought Mary, _now the servants will think I have gone mad, fitting into this new attire as the nanny. Trying to be one of _them_...which is _certainly_ not my purpose._

But her negativity did not - and certainly could not - linger on; there were tasks to take care of, and Mary Crawley had been serious about all this: she would, no matter what it employed, care for these children. _This is not for me_, she chastised at a moment of doubt, _but for the children. For my little George._

...

The little girl and her younger cousin played in the nursery for the duration of one hour, following breakfast. Mary had finally an interval during which she could sit back in Nanny's chair and ponder the start of a very successful day. George had eaten up everything on his plate (and had finished with a giddy grin across his bright face), and Sybbie's appetite had proven equally impressive. The substitute nanny had begun to wonder yet: would there be far more challenging obstacles ahead?

Whatever could happen, Mary knew, would happen: at half past eight, when she had let her son to bed once more for the infant's morning nap, Sybbie had tripped and scraped her knee, wreaking havoc on the girl's cream-coloured dress. Blood-smeared and torn, the article of clothing had to be treated of its disease; and so the first dreadful encounter of the day happened.

"What's this?" Thomas asked Mary with a sense of repulsiveness. It was evident that he did not care to be bothered downstairs in the morning; after all, Mrs. Patmore's perfectly delicious meal for the servants grew colder by the second.

The aristocrat explained in the gentlest way: "There has been an accident, and I wondered who might be able to mend this dress."

Thus far, George and Sybbie had remained silent: one in his nanny's arms, the other at her nanny's side. Suddenly a crash of kitchen pots sounded from the nearby room, and George's countenance instantly broke. He bawled out of fear.

"Shhh, shhh," Mary cooed to him, balancing the upset baby in her left arm whilst holding up the dress to an unimpressed Thomas. Clearly the young man wished to have the _real_ nanny back.

"Someone should be able to fix that up, milady - in the servants' hall over there." He gestured toward it as if Lady Mary were but a stranger to the house; nevertheless she thanked him sincerely for his guidance, took Sybbie's hand firmly, and led the three of them to the promising location.

Those who were present in the servants' hall stared at her. _They look as if they wish to exclaim, "Not her ladyship again!",_ Mary figured. George fought his mother to be free of her hold. "I hope this isn't a bad time," she asserted. Neither Carson nor Mrs. Hughes were present in the room, so Mary decided to be bolder with her speech.

When no one objected, she continued: "Miss Sybbie has torn one of her favourite dresses, and I wondered if any of you could and would repair it." As she scanned the room from left to right, all she saw was blank stares. "No one, then?" she verified, and her voice sounded nervous. The servants shook their heads in a staggering manner.

Mary's last resort was to ask Anna, who sat next to her husband in the centre of the wooden table. She almost opened her mouth to ask the favour, but her lady's maid spoke first: "Milady, I am ever so sorry, but his lordship has requested my presence at this time. If you'll excuse me..." She got out of her seat, pushed in her chair, bowed her head quickly, and went on her way. Bates now held eye contact with her ladyship.

"I believe his lordship wishes to maximise your challenges for the day, milady," confessed the valet. "If I may, I think it rather difficult on your ladyship -"

"No, it is all right, Bates; thank you for your information." Mary held her head high, smiled at the servants after thanking them for their time, and took her little band of children out of the servants' hall. _Of course Papa would have done,_ she thought. But in the stead of a frown, there radiated from her face a smile.

She was now more determined than ever to prove her capability to her papa. And that time would have to be at luncheon.

...

Cora beamed as her daughter descended the flight of stairs with the two children. Sybbie's mouth curled into a smile when she noticed her father beside the Countess of Grantham. "Daddy," she exclaimed, abandoning Mary and George to reunite with Tom.

"Hello darling," he greeted his daughter, kneeling down with open arms to receive her. "Are you enjoying your day with Aunt Mary?"

The little girl nodded and replied, "I wuv her." Cora's heart melted with joy. She turned to look once more at Mary, whose cheeks displayed a reddish colour.

"Well," announced the Countess, "you seem to have a natural talent for this."

"Honestly, Mama, I think Sybbie gives me far more credit than I deserve. She hurt her knee, and we had to have her clothes mended. The entire morning was rather an unusual one for these two."

Meanwhile, George's eyes had caught the attention of his grandfather's figure nearing the grand staircase. The baby uttered some nonsense words and pointed at Robert. Mary looked past her mother. "Ah, Papa, I wondered when we would see you today. I had thought you would be more excited to see my work in action." She smiled at him, remembering to raise her head high and proud. The Earl of Grantham met Tom at the bottom of the stairs and kissed Sybbie's head.

"I am sorry, my darling; there was estate business to be finished, and I hardly had a break from it since the early morning." Mary completed her descent and greeted her papa with a kiss on the cheek. George fidgeted in her arms.

"I hope you've survived the morning hours," remarked Robert. His tone was unconvincing to his daughter (and to Cora, who turned to look at her husband sceptically), so Mary replied,

"Truly? I thought you'd have wished for my motivation to have gone from the moment I began this project."

"And do you agree with me yet?" he asked her seriously. Tom started for the drawing-room, where they would all wait until Carson announced luncheon. Mary kept her gaze with Robert, stunned by the doubt he so strongly held against her.

She answered truthfully, "This is not an easy task, Papa, but I cannot agree with you. I dearly want to do this until George is old enough to run and play. My position has not altered."

"Hmph," uttered Robert, disappointed but convinced. "Well then, Carson should be ready for us by now..." Cora took her grandson into her arms, and the four of them left for the drawing-room.

"You're sure you want the children with us during luncheon?" questioned the Countess to her daughter. Mary only nodded and curved her lips into a smile. She truthfully was not sure, but she felt it the only way to convince Robert of her ability to thoroughly care for children.

She had planned to sit in-between Sybbie and George. That, she knew already, would be a challenge. But if successful...what a rewarding thing that would be!

After Carson had called them into the dining-room, Mary prayed that all would go well.

...

"Heavens, Mary, you've hardly touched your food."

"I can take care of Sybil, really, Mary," assured Tom. The Earl of Grantham had not ceased to watch his daughter's balancing of tasks; and it was, indeed, a dual-task. George was dependent upon his mother for feeding the soft food that Mrs. Patmore had provided, and Sybbie was eager to get up from her seat. This proved to be especially difficult, as Mary had to retain her niece's interest at the table. "Here," Tom offered, getting up from his seat to tend to his daughter. Mary, naturally, refused his assistance.

"Thank you, Tom, but this is working just fine - Sybbie, darling, look here..." Mary scooped up the fruit on the child's little plate. "You enjoy these: sweet, hmm?" The girl tried that which was waiting for her on her dish. When at last she had swallowed the piece of melon, she smiled at her aunt and remarked, "Mmm."

Tom slowly settled back into his chair, grinning at his daughter's obedience. "That's right, my darling. Now finish your meal for Aunt Mary."

George was gurgling and clapping his hands. Cora saw this and immediately turned to her husband. "Look, Robert. You see? This was a wonderful idea that Mary had."

The Earl was stubborn yet. "I agree that the children's presence at the table was a...good idea, yes. But -"

"But," cut in Edith, who had since been admiring her nephew from across the table, "an even better idea would be to let Mary have her way. Papa, you cannot deny her success today; what's more, Mary has taken care of George and Sybbie! I can't imagine -"

"Exactly," interrupted Robert firmly. "I _can't_ imagine life being quite like this all the time. I don't wish to discuss it here in front of the children, but -"

Mary, who had been helping Sybbie with a bite of vegetables, looked up to face her father. "No, let them hear it, Papa. Nothing should be secretive, especially not when your opinions involve them." Tom's daughter noticed where her aunt's gaze lay, and so she copied Mary by placing a curious gaze upon her speechless grandfather. The widowed mother continued:

"After all, they had better understand the complications of custom and modernisation. I am not one to prefer change often..." Her voice stopped all vocalisation when the Earl's countenance turned grave. "What is it?" she urged.

Cora and Edith sensed the conflict within Robert. His hands had retreated to his lap, and his eyes were fixed upon the children. How he looked upon them broke Mary's heart. _He is at war with himself, trying to figure out the right decision for their childhoods._

Tom was concerned about Robert as well. "I haven't asked about your writing, Edith. Has your editor published anything of yours recently?"

Edith snapped out of her trance and smiled at her brother-in-law. "Yes, actually. Michael plans to have my article on politics in the next issue of his newspaper. I will make sure to save you a copy."

Meanwhile, the children were growing tired of sitting in their special dining-room chairs. Carson came over to let Sybbie out of hers, and Mary excused George and her from the table. "Shall I bring them to dinner, Mama?" wondered the woman before quitting the dining-room. Cora's concerns still remained with her husband. She shook her head, and that was that. Mary nodded obediently and left with the two young ones.

Shortly following the act of putting George and Sybbie down for their afternoon nap, tears clouded the woman's vision as she retired to her bedroom. Anna confronted her briefly to ask about her ladyship's schedule for the rest of the day, but Mary assured the lady's maid not to worry about her. "After all," she concluded - with such negativity that it hurt even Anna - "no matter how I look, or how I'm dressed...they won't care. All they will see is my ridiculous exercise of something that will only ever be a dream. So no, thank you, Anna. I will get ready on my own tonight."

Seconds after the dressing gong that night, Mary heard a scream.

Month-old lungs had been the victim of that scream. And blood was involved.


	5. Aftermath

"Please Lord, please, please, _please…"_ She panted her way through the upstairs hallway, her heart cold as ice. Everything inside her had frozen; and she should have figured that her son would eventually suffer injury. That was inevitable.

_But why today? Why now?_ she wondered in the back of her mind. Mary almost tripped upon the carpet before she had reached the open nursery-door. "George?"

She swung the door open, cursing her very action when she realised how awfully close her son and niece were to the entrance. "Oh, God," she breathed. Sybbie was at her cousin's side, and minimal blood covered the floor beneath George's legs. "What happened?"

"Hurt," cried the little girl, tears streaking down her rosy cheeks. "Hurt, Auntie, hurt!"

"Mary got on her knees and lifted her son from the floor. The underside of George's left leg had been lacerated, and the baby winced when his mother gently touched the sensitive area. Mary concealed her panic when she told her niece, "Go find someone, please, Sybbie. Tell them George is hurt."

The two year-old nodded slowly whilst she processed the instructions; then she got up from the floor to leave. Mary kissed her screaming son's forehead. "My darling, I'm so sorry. Mummy's going to make it better, don't worry…" She put the baby down to retrieve some cold water and cloths from a nearby table. In minutes she had him back in her lap, covering the wounded region with the damp cloths.

An interjection startled Mary in the midst of her work. "What's happened? Mary, are you in there?" Robert and Cora appeared in the doorframe. Both held their breaths upon noticing the fresh blood on the ground. "How did this happen?"

"I don't know," began Mary, "I -"

"Mary?" Tom's voice came from just outside the nursery room. He and Sybbie appeared.

The amount of people blocking the doorway overwhelmed Baby George; his eyes closed and his vocal chords went at it again. "Come inside, you're worrying him," explained Mary. She would not stare into her father's eyes, fearful to see the disappointment and distrust through them. Cora met her daughter on the floor. Her face was very, very grave. "What can I do to help?"

Mary lifted George's hurt leg upward to examine the cloths covering it: they began to show a crimson colour. "The blood's still flowing out. He might need Dr. Clarkson -"

"How and when did this happen?" blurted Robert. He paced about the room in fury, concern, and - Mary guessed it - disappointment. "Were you here when it happened?"

"No, I heard him scream," confessed the young woman, sobbing as her son did likewise. Tom left with Sybbie, confirming that he would call for the doctor immediately. The Earl of Grantham reclaimed the conversation:

"You were not _here?_ Why were the children out of their cribs in the first place?"

"Oh, I forgot!" exclaimed Mary, pressing her forehead with such force that she muttered, "Damn."

Cora forced her lips together upon hearing this verbal sign of her daughter's frustration. "For how long were they out like this?" she wondered softly. Mary shook her head.

"I didn't mean to leave them; I was going to return to put them to bed, but I -"

Robert banged on a table. "Mary, how long?"

"An hour…"

Oh, how she hated her clumsiness at this moment! The very expression on her father's face frightened her. To make matters worse, George's volume had increased, indicating extraordinary pain passing through his poor leg. Cora took the baby from its mother and attempted to calm him.

Robert was not satisfied with the lack of information regarding the incident. "What caused him to get hurt? Look at the floor -" he gestured to the area surrounding Mary, Cora, and George - "and tell me, what could have torn his skin?"

"Papa, please!" exclaimed Mary, and this time she did look at her father. He harboured the very same sort of tears that had freed themselves from her own eyes. "I can hardly bear this moment as it is; please let me breathe and concentrate on figuring this out."

Robert shut his mouth quickly, his face still locked on that of his daughter. George had begun to pant for breath, which normally follows intense periods of bawling unstoppably. "Bring him here," declared Robert suddenly.

"I don't want him to lose more blood than he has already, Robert," reasoned the Earl's wife. She beckoned him to come to the floor to take their grandson. "Hold him like this," she instructed Robert; her hands supported the baby's back and legs, while her chest helped retain George's head's upright position.

"I'll let Carson know that we're expecting the doctor. We may need more cloths," Cora added, lifting herself from the ground carefully. It was then that she noticed a sharp object in the midst of some of the nursery toys on the floor. She picked it up, and Mary's eyes grew wide.

"What _is_ that?" Robert questioned. Cora would not answer, because she knew all too well what the item's purpose was. She forced herself not to look at Mary. "It's a hairpin. The sharp end of it must have scathed George's leg while he and Sybbie and were playing."

"Why is that in here?" Robert wondered, unable to connect the dots. He stared at the hairpin for a while and remarked, "That shouldn't be in here; it's awfully dangerous. George sat on it, didn't he? But why was it -"

"It belongs to me." Cora refrained from looking at she who had confessed her sin. Robert was aghast. "It's _yours?"_

Mary hated her father's pointless question. She took the item from her mother and declared, "I give up. You've had your way, Papa: I could never be a full-time mother, and eventually I daresay I'd be responsible for my son's death -"

"Mary!"

"No, Mama, listen: I cannot do this. Rules are set for good reasons." She touched the top of the baby's head as she stood back up. "I'm a fool for believing in my own ability - which is obviously no ability at all."

"You will stay here," commanded Robert firmly. "I _might_ think you foolish if, right now, you leave your son. For God's sake, remember your place! Do you intend to disown your ailing child?"

Cora put a hand on her husband's arm. "Robert, we don't need this drama. Mary, you will take George from your father's arms so that _he_ can wait for Clarkson downstairs."

Slowly did Mary approach her father. They did not look at one another, neither would Mary touch his body whilst she slid George out of her father's arms. All was a disgrace to Cora, but her grandson's health was top priority at the moment, so she prompted Robert out of the nursery.

When he was gone, Cora admonished her daughter - though it was most agonising with every word - "You're hardly behaving like a mother right now. I suggest you forget about the hairpin and remember your son."

There was no response that followed this rather bold assertion from mother to daughter; Mary had learned her lesson, and heaven knew what internal demolition occurred inside her with every tense second that transpired.

Her son looked at her. He was a horrifying sight; for Mary could not fail to see that her precious George was holding everything in - all for _her._


	6. Duty

The Roman clock ticked. Nearby footsteps would pace - then stop - then continue once more. Groups of servants would whisper downstairs, and in seconds all would be deathly quiet down there. And finally, screams vibrated the closed nursery-door. Every inch of this hour tortured Mary, and all she could do was to wait.

To wait for _the_ news: whether or not her dear little boy would pull through after the surgical procedure he presently endured.

Of course Robert couldn't move a muscle in his mouth to speak to his daughter. His _failed_ daughter, so she saw herself. And whilst the fair and understanding Earl of Grantham knew that no one in this world is infallible, he continued to practise silence in the presence of Mary.

It was during the interval that Tom had drifted toward Mary - who stood motionless beside the nursery door - that Dr. Clarkson finally returned to them.

Cora drew the dry breath from her lungs; heaven knows how little she'd been breathing. Robert grabbed his wife's hand and squeezed it firmly; Tom cocked his head to the left, focusing on Mary's countenance. "Mary," he whispered. She turned to face him, and his heart burst with agony: she looked _so_ nervous, so _lost._

The doctor finally took the initiative to speak. "I would prefer to discuss George's status outside the nursery, as it would overwhelm him otherwise." He examined the freshly-documented report of the surgical procedure and made eye contact with everyone: Edith, Tom, Robert, Cora, Mary, and Isobel, who had hopped into a car immediately after receiving notification of her grandson's injury.

"How is he, Dr. Clarkson?" enquired Isobel.

"He will recover quickly, I am certain," came the response. A cloud of anxiety was instantly lifted from everyone's shoulders. Robert beamed, lifting his wife's hand to kiss it gingerly.

Tom and Mary still thirsted for details. "For how long will George need intensive care, Doctor?" the young man wondered. Mary further asked, "Was the wound very deep?"

"It was a shallow cut, Lady Mary; nevertheless, its location required immediate action. I recommend one week of intensive care, but he should be around his family on a regular basis - just in case one of the stitches tears." He nodded to Tom and to Mary; soon the doctor was engaged in conversation with the Earl and Countess of Grantham.

Edith and Isobel approached Mary and Tom. "Thank goodness it's nothing too severe," admitted Isobel. She peered into Mary's unconvinced eyes and frowned. "Mary, dear, are you missing him? Shall I ask Dr. Clarkson if we can see George?"

"Doctor," called Edith, "can we go inside?" Clarkson smiled and nodded.

"I can't believe this has happened," Mary confessed to Tom whilst the four of them entered the dimly-lit nursery. Every part of the room brought foul memories of her bleeding son crying out for his mama; she closed her eyes and exhaled heavily. _Please, Lord,_ she prayed, _grant George a speedy recovery. I don't care whether or not Papa consents to me being my son's own nanny...but I ask that you would restore my darling baby to health._

Once she had finished, Edith touched her sister's arm and motioned for them to approach George's crib. Tom was already there with Isobel; the child's grandmother reached into the crib to cradle George's head. "We are all here, my darling," she cooed. "In no time you'll be better - yes, _much_ better."

Isobel continued to speak soft words to the baby. Mary found it appropriate for her mother-in-law to take such time with her grandchild; it was almost as if her touch compensated partially for Matthew's absence of touch. _Oh, Matthew,_ her mind moaned with longing. _If only you were here... You would chastise me for my carelessness, sure, but...we need you._

"Mary," Tom addressed her after a minute of silence. Mary turned to find him and Edith standing by the nursery door. "We think you and Mrs. Crawley should have this time alone with George." He added after Mary nodded in accord, "Tomorrow I will take Sybbie for a walk. You won't have to worry about her - that is..."

"Don't worry, Tom," assured the other, much strength in her assertion. "I understand that my wish might never become reality, and I have accepted that. Good night to both of you." Edith smiled sadly at her sister before Tom opened the door and led them both out of the room. Mary returned to look with ardent love at Isobel. The older woman had begun to sing quietly to George, and by the sound of it, the baby was contented with the mellifluous tune.

"When Matthew was a baby, he never let me sing to him," she confessed in the darkness. Mary gradually approached them, making certain not to cause any noise from the steps she took. Continued Isobel: "He would always flush bright red and cover his head in his blankets. But I thought I'd try it on little George."

"It appears that he enjoys it," Mary commented. She now lay her hands on the railing of the crib - an action that both comforted her upon being closer to George and punished her upon noticing the boy's bandages. _A sign of my folly_, she reminded herself in all honesty.

Isobel momentarily relieved her daughter-in-law of sour thoughts: "Every time I visit George, Mary, I think of you and Matthew together at the altar. It pains me, because you both had such high hopes that your time together would exceed two years..."

"We were very lucky to have known one another," responded Mary; her eyes froze upon the face of the child she and Matthew had created. Her ears suddenly detected the faint sounds of George mumbling. It was at that moment when she cried.

"I know," Isobel assured her, uncurling her fingers from the crib's railing to embrace her. "I know what...what wretched luck this is, to have your husband gone from you and your baby. I feel it through you, Mary, because you are my daughter...now more than ever. And I promise -"

Doubts piled into Mary's tumultuous mind. "Do you think I've made this worse, having threatened my father's chances of letting me care fully for George?" Her wet eyes stared deeply into Isobel's, and soon they were both weeping.

"Mary, that does not matter. I am very proud of you for devoting your time as you've done today. But I would not dwell on Robert's role in all of this; right now - as I am certain you already know - we must care for George. And perhaps," she continued, brushing the tears from Mary's cheeks, "...perhaps your sacrifice to watch over George now...it might just convince your father."

"But it is my duty to do so, regardless of the situation," figured Mary, frowning. Isobel rested a hand on Mary's cheek and smiled warmly. "Exactly. He will see that you know your place as a mother, and that alone...is priceless."


	7. Direction

And what a devoted mother Mary was! She insured that George had his every meal at the proper times; each day she bathed him in gentle, warm water; and she made certain that George had time with his favourite Cousin Sybbie. The little girl understood what was appropriate whilst interacting with the recovering baby; and of this Mary was - as a mother and an aunt - most appreciative, and most proud.

On the last day of the vigilant week, Mary heard a knock on the nursery door. George had been playing with his toys on the floor next to his mother, and when he heard the knock his head turned to his mother. "Ma-ma?" he asked softly.

Mary called, "Come in," and felt her body stiffen as she lifted herself from the ground. Tom entered the room and drew near his nephew, who beamed at the familiar presence. "How are you, George?"

The baby picked up a rectangular, wooden block from the floor and handed it to his uncle. Mary translated the gesture: "He says, 'I am much better, Uncle Tom; now play with me.'" The two adults chuckled, whereupon George extended his arm to reclaim his uncle's attention. Tom knelt down to accept the block with a "Thank you."

Mary lifted the baby into her arms and announced, "It's time for dinner, George. Grandmama will be here tonight, and she wants to see you."

Tom looked at Mary. "If George is joining us for dinner, I'll arrange with the kitchen staff to have meals ready for him and Sybbie."

"That's very kind of you, Tom; though actually I've already arranged it with Mrs. Patmore." She pursed her lips, trying not to chuckle at Tom's astounded expression.

"Well... I should have known you'd get ahead of the nanny-business. It's impressive, Mary." He smiled as her pallid face flushed pink. "I don't mean to flatter you, honest -"

"No, it's not that, Tom, really." The woman balanced George in her arms and walked over to the table. From it she took the comb and grazed it over her son's brown locks. "Your words are sincere, and I treasure them... I only wish Papa would see it as you have done."

"I wouldn't give up on Robert yet," suggested her brother-in-law. "This week was different without you. Your father asked as to where you were last night at dinner." He opened the door for Mary, who carried her son out of the nursery room.

The dressing gong resounded through the upstairs hallway. Tom wondered why Mary hadn't left George inside the nursery. "Are you taking him to your bedroom?"

"Yes, but do not fear: he will stay in Matthew's dressing room until Anna's finished." She smiled at Tom after giving the baby's arm a quick squeeze. "After spending a week with George," explained she, "I can't think to leave him for a moment."

"You should consider discussing this with Robert," Tom reiterated. "Anyway, I've got a black tie and a daughter waiting for me. I'll see you down there." He saluted his sister-in-law and disappeared down the halls.

...

The Earl of Grantham hadn't asked about - neither had he laid eyes upon - his grandson for days. And so, as any grandfather with heart would feel, Robert ached to visit George. He could not wait for dinner that night; no, not even when the dressing gong had bellowed throughout the halls of Downton. _I have an obligation to see Matthew's boy before he's presented in public,_ figured he. _I am his grandfather: nothing less._

Similarly, Mary's thoughts had consisted of her father's involvement in George's life thus far. _Papa rejects my idea which would strengthen the bond I have with my son, and yet he knows not what it is to spend time with George._ Anna finished buttoning up Mary's forest-green gown when the widow spat, _"Damn._ Sorry, Anna."

Naturally the lady's maid had jumped at the profound assertion. "Milady, I... It's perfectly all right."

"No, it isn't; but you're kinder to me than I deserve." Quickly Mary disengaged and walked to her vanity. "I've been swamped in...so many _doubts..._about his lordship." She stared at Anna's figure in the looking-glass, completely at loss.

Fortunately, Anna Bates never failed to lighten Mary's spirits. "His lordship is frightened, milady. He sees your determination to make change happen, and with worry he prevents himself from noticing the benefits of your prospect." The lady's maid stood still for a moment, allowing the other woman to digest her words. Then she whispered, "I'm on your side. I believe your ladyship's plan would work nicely... And it would do Master George a service -"

"In giving him back one of his parents," finished Mary, choking on the latter word. Turning round to face Anna, she let it all out: "I feel...if George is spending almost all his time with Nanny, and not with his only living parent... It's _cruel_ on my part, and it's a crime. Even if Matthew were here..." Her voice softened but did not break; Anna smiled sadly at her friend and rested a comforting hand on Mary's shoulder. "...Even if we were _both_ alive for little George, I believe Matthew would not have wanted a Nanny."

Anna fought the tears. _How would it feel,_ she wondered bravely, _to lose my husband and to practically lose my child?_ "If I may, milady," started Anna, "his lordship must hear this. Please tell him; your heart is in the right place; you are concerned for George. And, at the same time, _you_ need this. I can't say I'm an expert at family relationships -" Anna chuckled - "but you and Master George _must_ remain together. As much as possible."

The two women were interrupted by a noise that was at first mind-boggling. "What in the world...?" Mary turned to the door leading to Matthew's old dressing room and suddenly remembered: "Oh, dear. My son is growing rather anxious!"

Anna grinned. "Here, milady; I'll let him in." She went to the door and opened it carefully; and what the lady's maid saw astounded her. "Milady, George is standing!"

The child wobbled a little, but Mary was not the least bit disappointed by her son's performance. She experienced both delight in her son and longing for Matthew in cacophonous unison; her heart was being pulled by George's marvellous sign of growth whilst her memories sought to restrain her - to take her back to the past, a past in which the loving Matthew Crawley embraced his wife and talked of moments as precious as this.

The widow accepted the tears that poured out from her grief-bitten eyes. After all, George had done something so beautiful that she unashamedly wept in front of her lady's maid whilst she knelt down to steady George by the hand. Perhaps she was overreacting to such an event, but her excuse for that phenomenon was Matthew's loss.

_Indeed,_ mused Mary, _nothing set in stone can be undone; but beauty must be cherished over all!_

From that moment on, Mary felt that she had finally found direction in this new era of life without Matthew.


	8. Decision

At last the Earl of Grantham stood in front of his eldest daughter's bedroom door. _Is this such a practical idea,_ wondered he,_ when I'm about to see her at dinner? Surely I can wait..._

But his body wouldn't let him. In no time at all, Robert found himself inside Mary's room, holding little George on his lap. His nerves had gotten to him, yielding his daughter slightly concerned as the baby wriggled in his grandfather's arms. "Papa, you know he won't harm you…?"

Robert immediately snapped into focus and bounced the child with the muscles of his thighs. "Of course not! Sorry, perhaps I'm a little rusty at this. Sybbie's not been this tiny for quite some time."

This comment caused Mary to wonder: had her father _never_ held George in this way? "Surely you've had my son in your arms before," she mused, though not completely convinced of her own words.

The Earl shook his head. "Only once after he was born. This is my second time holding my grandson. Poor little chap…" Robert rubbed his thumbs over George's hands. _I remember when my own children were this small,_ he recollected. Bitter-sweet was this thought; he'd never really processed the fact that his eldest daughter had given birth to a baby of her own, and this was mostly due to the silly notion that she - Mary, his daughter - was still a little girl herself.

"I can't believe it," remarked Mary, staring in awe at her son as he responded with a smile to his grandfather's touch. "Was it because… Were you _frightened_ to hold him?"

She'd asked it gently - and with no force or bias whatsoever - but her father knew how he felt about his first grandson, so the question aroused his emotions. "I think I was," admitted he, ever so softly. George cocked his head upward to stare at the older man's large face (in comparison to the baby's own, of course). "Da," he uttered. Mary thought she knew what her son had meant, but spoke nothing of it.

Nothing needed to be spoken. Robert understood perfectly -

Which brought him to his main point for coming to see them. "Mary, I've been needing - and wanting - to apologise for this. My heart has, quite like yours, fallen victim to the cracks and chaos of the past several months. However, quite unlike your heart, mine has failed to view the situation from a practical perspective." He had been sitting on the side of Mary's bed, but now he wanted to stand with the child and draw closer to his daughter. The widow held her lips together. This was painful - for too many reasons.

"Of course I never should have been so critical with you," continued the Earl of Grantham, remembering to balance his body as he got up with George in his arms. Mary reached out to relieve her father, but he told her, "If you don't mind, I'd like to treasure every moment I can with little George."

"By all means, Papa, please," came the response. It made Mary smile; things were slowly improving between her and her papa, and it felt as if the bleakness of the days had begun to fade away. For once in a long while, Mary thought her bedroom looked brighter.

Seconds ticked away on the Roman clock that was perched on the chest of drawers across from Mary's bed. Matthew's picture sat there, too, as if he were watching over every instant of life in that room. The lucky charm rested against the picture-frame, and so antique did it appear; Mary would never quite know what it had seen in those wretched trenches during the Great War, but she marvelled at how symbolic a thing that little dog had become for her and Matthew. It had become their confidence that things would turn out all right in the end…

_Whatever "end" we'd thought would come hasn't come at all,_ thought the woman. _But I think Matthew would be pleased with this, right now: Papa is making amends with me, and I with him -_

"I wanted to come in here to relieve you of something," her father started, after minutes of silence in admiration of George. Mary lifted her chin to show that she was attentive and serious; the last thing she wanted was for her hopes to shine through so much that Robert reconsidered his plan. But that would never happen, she'd soon find out.

"It has occurred to me that some things in life can never make sense to all," he announced, "and that one must simply trust those who understand that situation to make the most of it. And I trust you, Mary. Deeply, I do."

"I am glad to have earned your trust, Papa, but I feel there is something I must say before you continue."

"And that is…?"

She knew it would break them both, but Mary was certain that it had to be spoken, for Matthew's sake. "Nothing has been very rewarding about my new life as a widow. However, it has been stressed all the more how much I would have relied upon Matthew, were he still here…and it pains me to think of what it would have been like to have never experienced you in my childhood."

Robert swallowed hard. He had nothing to contradict in that statement, nothing about which to question regarding his daughter's authority to make such an assertion. _She knows far more than I do about the life of a widow. I, after all, still have Cora._

"So I don't want this decision regarding a nanny to be about me," Mary concluded, looking to the dainty picture in the frame atop the chest of drawers. She smiled at Matthew's image, thinking to herself, _This is for you and our little prince. And in that way, I, too, am happy._

"I think of George when I tell you that I no longer want a nanny to feed and clothe him. I remember Matthew when I say that there is no better option than for me to play with and love my son. For their sakes I beseech you, Papa." Her final words had ended softly, but Robert needed not to hear them; his eyes had already consented. _Yes,_ they cried, _for their sakes and for your own, of course!_ Yet all this he'd proclaimed through heartfelt tears. Mary beamed when, after a minute's embrace and abundant kisses - shared between the three of them - Robert made his decision audible:

"Perhaps I should have given you my consent days ago, but here we are… Yes, my darling daughter, you may serve your vocation as the Lord deemed it. And as Matthew would have wanted, and as George undoubtedly needs it." He placed the baby into its mother's welcoming arms and treasured the sight of Mary's priceless countenance. It radiated in a way that he'd not seen since before Matthew's death. "I am already happy," declared he, first kissing George's forehead. Then he planted his lips tenderly on the top of her head remembering to remark, "I still can't believe that you're almost as tall as I."

"Before we realise it, George will be past my height." Mary chuckled, and so did the baby, after looking from his elated mother to his cheery grandfather.

Robert absolutely marvelled at his children, overwhelmed by the precious little chap to whom his steadfast daughter had given birth. _Indeed, I have made the right decision,_ he resolved in his mind. _Mary is - and will be for all her days - such a wonderful mother._

* * *

THE END


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